


After

by Malind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: Whether because of love or hate or a bit of both, they can't seem to escape each others arms, even when that's all they want to do for sanity's sake.





	1. Chapter 1

Sam used the edge of his hand to wipe at the fogged-up bathroom mirror. It helped minimally in his efforts to examine his worn-out face. Not that he really wanted to see the dark circles under his eyes or the 11 o'clock shadow.

His gnarled appearance was from the stress of meeting death in the eye earlier that day. Again. It was from the fundamental changes over the weeks, that included horrific visions of others' deaths, his brother's near murder and acceptance of impending death from his heart attack. Everything, all of it had turned Sam's world upside down. Again. It was also…

His eyes closed and he held his breath for a moment as he acknowledged the underlining reason.

It all also came from the idea that his brother would be there no matter what. No matter what came between them, even if it was Sam himself.

He'd almost lost that again that day. So many times over the months and years, in fact, that it bordered on torture. Never mind Sam's escapes on occasion since they always eventually ended with him back at his brother's side.

The young man rubbed at his face, straining muscles that had been beaten and cramped up in a cage hours before. How his brother had found him at that farm… It’d been pure luck and perhaps a bit of detective work. But mostly luck. He’d almost died. Again. And tomorrow, it would probably happen again.

Today though, hidden away in a motel bathroom with his brother lying on the bed in the next room, Sam tried to force himself to relax a tiny bit. The shower had helped with some of the aches, but definitely not with all of them. Especially not the one between his legs he refused to touch, that he begged to go down so he could go back out into the room and lay down on the stale, overly-used motel mattress and finally go to sleep.

If he could only get his brother out of his head…

He considered beating the thing, truly beating it, but that probably would have only made the erection worse.

Instead, Sam tried thinking about those crazed men and their equally deranged daughter. That actually helped a bit as his length proceeded to droop. Yeah, he just had to focus on that stuff. The horrible things. And not his brother. No, not Dean, his brother. Definitely not Dean.

Dean…

Wrong direction. He forced his thoughts again to the cage. To his brother peeping his head around the corner and bringing him hope. To freeing Dean from the bindings that held him in that chair after he'd thrown the girl in a closet, feeling the heat of his skin with every unintentional touch.

“Damn it… Just stop it. Just stop.”

It was just the trauma of everything that was putting these unnatural thoughts into his head. He could force them right back out. Yeah, just like he’d been doing his whole life with everything else, right?

Sam sighed his exasperation and looked back to his reflection and then jerked slightly when a solid couple of knocks hit the door.

“You done in there? I gotta take a leak.”

And that instantly put images into Sam's head of his brother holding his cock. Not helping.

“Yeah, hold on. Give me a minute.”

A moment after he said it, the door burst open that Sam obviously hadn’t thought to lock. “Seriously, I gotta go.”

And then there Sam was, trying his best to cover up a cock that still stood up proudly. Luckily, he had a towel around his waist or there would have been no hiding it at all. Dean rushed to his side, digging out a limp dick and aiming it at the toilet. Sam tried not to look. There was no way in hell he was going to look, damn it! He merely stood there, stiff in more than one place, and trying to gain some semblance of control.

A steady stream splashed into the toilet, like a never-ending spout of cum. Listening to it, feeling his hard-on ache, Sam felt for sure he was going to die any moment. Or at least go insane.

Eventually, not soon enough, his brother was tucking himself back in. That was the moment Dean should have walked back out of the bathroom. And he started to, but once he was behind Sam, he instead took to staring at Sam’s back. The younger man stared at the mirror, not seeing himself anymore because the mirror had fogged back up, trying to not breathe, to not give any hint that he was alive and so impure.

“Sammy… Are you all right?”

Sam managed to choke out, “I’m fine.” When Dean didn’t move, Sam added with no more conviction, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was a slight pause before the older brother added, “You’ve been in here for like an hour.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’ll be out in a minute.”

His brother’s eyes burned holes into his back. How was he supposed to get his brother out when he couldn’t even turn around because the closeness of Dean did absolutely nothing to tame his rock-hard cock? A hand gripped his damp upper arm. Instantaneously, Sam tried to jerk out of the grip. That only made everything worse since Dean then had both of his hand on his upper arms, trying to turn him around.

“Hey! Calm down! What’s wrong?”

Panicking, when Sam then tried to wrench out of the grips again, one of Dean’s arms snaked around him obviously trying to restrain him, but in doing so, hit him right in the cock. Sam yelped at the aggressiveness of it, an over-stimulation that seemed to explode lightning through every inch of his body. Probably confused, surely confused, Dean’s hand then latched onto what he’d hit, something that wasn’t supposed to be there, probably trying to figure out what was there, although the general proximity to Sam’s groin should have given Dean a clue.

Breathing heavily, Sam didn’t move an inch. Instead, he wished he’d been born without a dick so this situation couldn’t have even been a possibility. Dean, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, surely having come to the rightful conclusion by then as to what he held.

Dean should have let go. He should have fled from the room or thrown up in the toilet. Instead, bringing Sam to pant recklessly, the hand didn’t move at all. If anything, it increased its grip.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed out, barely heard over Sam’s own breaths. Then, bringing Sam to boil, Dean breathed in deeply near his neck, and then pulled away so abruptly that Sam gasped. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Trying not to hyperventilate, Sam blurted out, “No. No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Dean hacked out a humorless, half-deranged laugh. “For what? Me groping you and...”

“No, just...” How could he possibly explain himself and not appear as guilty as he truly was?

“I’m sorry. Look, I’m just going to go back to bed and let you finish up. Take as much time as you need. And you can, you know...” Dean cleared his throat. “Take care of that too.”

Sam huffed, his head falling back, his eyes taking in the wet ceiling. The situation wasn’t funny in the least, except in some highly ironic, ‘Everything in the world wants to make your life miserable as hell in every possible way’ kind of way. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

That moment was definitely the moment Dean should have walked away. Why wasn’t he walking away?

“Sam...”

With a pant Sam couldn’t control, he breathed out, “Yeah?”

The moment lengthened and Sam almost forced himself to turn around, hard-on or not. Then, saving him from the effort, his brother’s bare feet slapped on the tile as the man stalked away. The door closed none too gently. And Sam released the breath he’d been holding in. His hands gripped into fists. Nearly a minute later, the blood in his dick still wouldn't be willed away. If anything, it was only more painful.

“Fuck it. Fuck it all,” Sam growled, digging into the towel and yanking out his cock, stroking it hard and fast until he came with tears in his eyes and pure lust in his agonized heart. Every stroke he wished was made with his brother’s hand. Every one of his breaths he wished Dean matched. Coming into the sink was as pleasurable as it was painful for his body, heart, and mind.

When he'd milked every last bit out, his hands gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady his suddenly deadened body. His head swam. His mind... Thankfully that had gone into some kind of drunken haze, at least for the moment.

When he felt more grounded, he opened his eyes, saw the cum lining the sink, turned on the faucet, and made sure it all made its way down the drain, hiding the evidence from his brother as much as from himself.

When he finished drying off, he slipped on a clean pair of boxers he'd brought in the bathroom with him, opened the door and made his way to the bed, collapsed on it, and tried to find unconsciousness. It wasn’t all that hard to find, thankfully. The last thing he heard before sleep gained a stranglehold on him was the slight creaking of the other bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking a crowbar to the car was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to get rid of the rage and frustration. Instead, all it ended up doing was giving Dean another thing he had to fix in this world on top of a mountain of other things. Well, that, and give him a glorious sting of pain throughout his body.

Panting, feeling his muscles tremble more from his exploding heart and mind than his juvenile assault on his beloved vehicle, Dean stared in the direction his brother had left, half expecting Sam to return to scowl and yell at him some more with his abused face because of all the ear-punching noise. But Sam never came back around the corner. Dean didn’t blame him. He didn’t want to deal with himself either.

But he would deal with himself. He always did. Right?

Yeah, okay, he wasn't dealing with himself and certainly not with his father who still seemed to be looking over his shoulder. But how could he say that to his younger, apparently more mature brother who seemed to be actually dealing with their father's death rather than torturing a car?

After kicking the crowbar to somewhere under the car, ignoring the resulting stubbed pain in his foot, Dean found himself slumping down to the dusty ground. His ass plopping onto the ground was met with a multitude of pointy rocks. He welcomed the distraction of pain. But it wasn't enough. He gripped the hair at the top of his head in unbreakable fists until tears came to his eyes from the pain.

Anything was better than feeling like this. Pain was so much better than feeling like this. Pain could be dealt with. This? This was, well, a death not his own. A death he knew was his fault...

It was almost a half an hour before Dean could admit to himself that relishing in the pain of trying to rip his own hair out, nor the stabbing at his ass, wasn't helping anything, no matter how good it felt in comparison. By then, the sun was beginning to set.

Resigning to the fact that he couldn't torture his real pain away, pulling himself back together, Dean shoved himself to his feet and dusted off his pants as he started the long walk back to the motel they were presently staying at.

At the door, he dug out his key and opened the door. Inside, the room was empty, but he heard the shower going in the bathroom. He closed the door behind himself, staring at the bathroom door. 

He wished he could forget... Why couldn’t he forget? But whenever Sam was in the shower, even after all the jokes and the pushing's to get his kid brother into someone else's bed... All he could think about was...

Dean shook his head, his teeth gritted, and then stripped off his dusty shirt and pants before landing face first on his bed, trying to suffocate himself with the pillow he shouldn't have been grabbing with his dirty hands. Eventually though, a need for oxygen forced his head to turn towards the bathroom and Sam...

With a growl, he tossed his head to look in the other direction and closed his eyes. The shower turning off a moment later made his eyes reopen. The shower curtain jerked. A towel was grabbed off the rod with considerable force. Was Sam still upset with him? Then again, when was younger man not upset at something...?

Closing his eyes again, Dean tried to not pay attention to the bathroom, but it seemed like every single part of him wanted to be in there with Sam. With his brother. His brother! God, his father would have killed him if he'd been alive to do the deed. And Dean would have helped him do it.

With another throaty growl, he reburied his face, trying to find absolution.

Then his brother came out of the bathroom. Dean pictured his brother in nothing but a coarse, too-small motel towel that couldn't help but part as he walked. Yeah, the pathetic towels were that way to keep people from stealing them and not to tempt him, but, still...

There was a moment of total silence, before Sam said, "I'm done. Go ahead, if you want."

"Yeah, in a minute," Dean said against the pillow along with the mental, 'Just get dressed first...'

"Dean... I'm sorry..."

For what? Telling the truth? But he couldn’t say that. He couldn't ever admit his weakness. He had to be the strong one. For Sam. For dad. For himself so he could stand to look at himself in the mirror.

Then he heard Sam shuffling through his bag. Clothing rustled. Then Sam fell onto his bed. 

Deeming the coast as clear, Dean turned away, without looking at Sam and walked right into the bathroom without a backwards glace. He could feel his bother's stare, but he couldn’t turn around, not at that moment because Dean was sure everything wrong about him would have been written on his face.

The older brother turned on the water, mostly hot, and then stripped and let the water splash in his face until he was gasping for air and light headed. Then he went to work, mechanically scrubbing himself until the water that washed away was clear. In less than four minutes, he was exiting, toweling himself dry, wrapping the damp towel around himself, and walking out the door and to his bag.

Even though he still refused to make eye contact with Sam, he could still feel his eyes on him. He dug through his bag, pulling out a pair of sweatpants. He threw the towel around him back into the bathroom onto the floor and then yanked the sweatpants on.

Then, when he turned, he made the mistake of meeting Sam's eyes. The younger man stared at him without the slightest hint of turning away like Dean wanted to do. 

But, wanting to break the tension between them, Dean huffed and said, "What?"

Sam's jaw ground. The kid looked near tears again. God, he hated it when his brother cried. Then, Sam whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. And so is my car." When Sam refused to turn away, his bother's gaze becoming unnerving, Dean huffed again, and walked back to his bed, and collapsed back onto it, face first.

The silence was overwhelming. Usually it wasn't. Usually there was a quiet serenity between them, no matter the jests, pranks, yelling, and punching. Usually they understood one another. All too well. 

This night though... That serenity was seriously missing.

Then he heard it: a shifting of the covers. But what he didn't expect was a hand to lightly touch his arm.

Dean jerked his head up and towards the contact, then up at the face of his brother. His brother looked...

Dean found himself rolling to the side. Not missing a beat, Sam slid under the sheet, lying next to him on his back, like Sam had when he was younger and terrified of the clown under his bed. Well, almost like. 

Years before, the boy had curled up against him, taking in all the heat Dean could offer. Eventually, Dean had found himself holding him back. At first, his father had allowed it. But eventually, he'd scolded Sam, telling him he was too old to be afraid of something so silly when there were real monsters out there. As if that was supposed to help an eight-year old's psyche. In truth, Dean thought his father had seen their closeness as something else, something even he himself felt.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" When Sam said nothing more, Dean pressed his lips together, staring at the ceiling. "Go to sleep, Sammy. I forgive you. Your conscience is free from guilt."

Sam huffed, shaking his head. "If only..."

"If only, what?"

Dean could hear the smile when Sam said, "If only I was free of guilt." Then Sam rolled to his side and touched Dean's upper arm again, just the barest hint of touch. The touch became the slightest of caresses and Dean's breaths became heavy.

A couple of minutes later, Sam whispered, "After the wreck... You lying there. Not knowing if you were going to wake up. I was... so scared..."

Dean cleared his throat at the earnestness of Sam's voice, not sure what any of that had to do with Sam feeling guilty. "As if a car wreck could kill me."

Apparently ignoring Dean's attempt as some ill-placed humor, Sam continued with a whisper, "Your heart stopped, Dean. God, I'd never been so scared while they... I thought... And then dad..." 

The hand at Dean's arm gripped, almost painfully. Dean could only lie there and take it. All of it. Having Sam so close like this was torture.

Then came his undoing: Sam leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. Not a quick, 'Why do I have to kiss my Grandma?' kind of kiss. But rather... His lips lingered, drawing fire over Dean's skin as those soft lips moved.

To cover his sudden near hyperventilation and the sudden stirring at his groin Sam would have no trouble seeing since the lamp was still on, Dean blurted out, however quietly, "Sam, what are you doing?"

The lips pulled away as Sam tilted his head back up to look at the side of Dean's face. "I... I don't know."

The torment in his bother's voice...

"Fuck," Dean growled, unable to help it. He tried to will his cock to obey him, but it stiffened nonetheless, so he had no choice but to roll away, putting his back to the younger man.

Sam let out a shuddering breath. "Dean... I... I'm sorry. Please..."

Then, against everything that was sane and just, Sam suddenly scooted forward, against him, spooning him from behind and wrapping his arm around, pulling Dean fully against Sam's body. His younger brother rutted against him, as his hand searched out Dean's stiffened length, diving under his sweatpants. The moment Sam's hand gripped his erection, Dean's body no longer knew how to breathe. The throaty moan Sam let out didn't help in the least, sending a shiver through Dean's body. Blood pooled to his groin until he thought for sure he'd explode, even though Sam still hadn't given him a single stroke.

Over his sweatpants, Dean gripped the hand holding him so that Sam's hand couldn't move. "God, Sam, what are you doing?"

Did Sam have even the slightest clue what he was doing? Was he possessed? Was he so crazy in his grief that it was completely and utterly misplaced?

"Please, let me..." The rutting against Dean continued as Sam's breathing became erratic and filled with moans that boiled Dean's blood. 

Dean couldn't stand it. He was only human, never mind that his only true weakness had always been his bother. He forcibly pulled his body away and then turned over, facing Sam and claiming his mouth with every pent-up desire he'd ever felt for the kid. Sam yanked Dean's sweatpants down and gripped the erection while pushing his own hips forward, bringing their cocks together, stroking them both at the same time with his large hand. 

They moaned into each other's mouths, Dean jutting his hips to get just that more friction against himself, adoring the soft skin and hard core of his bother's erection as he rubbed against it. He gripped Sam at the back of his head, twining through damp hair, not giving Sam the option of pulling away as Dean tasted his mouth, caressed Sam's tongue with his own, stole his breath.

Within a couple of minutes, he couldn’t contain himself any longer, although God knows he tried, his body already redampened with his sweat. He came between them, moaning weakly into Sam's mouth, wishing he could call out. A few seconds later, he felt Sam's cum hitting his chest, his yanking on their cocks never ceasing until the bitter end.

Weakened out of his mind, almost feeling like he was waking up from a coma again, Dean kissed his brother some more, loving it, wishing reality wouldn't ever invade this moment. When Sam made to pull away though, Dean reluctantly let him go and opened his eyes. 

Sam was starting at him again, watching him so closely that Dean wanted to reclose his eyes. "Dean..."

That made Dean close his eyes, then pull away. He stood up, ignoring his swinging cock as he went back into the bathroom, grabbed a couple of small towels, using one of them to clean himself. The other he brought back to his brother. Sam rolled onto his back, staring, displaying his beautiful body as he wiped the cum off his own torso.

Could he possibly be any more beautiful?

Then Dean laid back down on the queen-sized bed, pulled his pants back up, threw the towel on the floor, and stared back up at the ceiling. What the hell had he just done? Somehow... Somehow this was definitely all his fault. Somehow he'd put thoughts into Sam's head. Somehow...

"Dean?"

"Go to sleep, Sammy," he said much more sternly than he wished he had.

Eventually, nearly an hour later, he heard Sam's breaths go quiet in his sleep. It took another hour before he joined him because he only wanted more.


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean smiles... God, why does it always turn my insides out?

...Well, it usually does, the exception being when I'm royally pissed off at him. Or when he's just being the self-centered, gloating, asshole he damn well knows he can be. Which is quite often. Then... Yeah, then his smiles really piss me off... far more than they should because I know why he acts like he does.

But now, right now, while he's sitting there with his elbows on his knees, the cup dangling precariously at the tips of his fingers, his jaw a bit slack, watching the game on that tiny CRT tube that's probably half my weight... Right now...

The dimestore Christmas lights blinking in the background splash red and green tones over my brother's face. It's mesmerizing to watch the colors shift with each change of my brother's expression. For that matter, his expressions themselves are mesmerizing.

I shake my head, clenching my eyes shut, trying to right myself, my half-crazed, admittedly drunk brain.

Why do I keep I staring like this? Especially since I know what I'm doing. Especially when I know he doesn't want me to. Not like this, anyway. Not for this reason.

I know I should keep my eyes off him... But I can't for some reason right now. Perhaps because I've given into myself and declared it Christmas for Dean.

No, I can't stop myself. My eyes are drawn back to him again and again at his every overly-enthusiastic exclamation and gesture as the football players flop over each other.

Yes, my eyes are drawn back to him again and again because... 

Because this is the last Christmas I might ever have with him and I don't want to forget a single moment of it.

And to think a day before I hadn't wanted this.

My eyes dart back again and again to inadvertently memorize every one of his movements, every shout he blares at the TV. Slowly, I see color rise to his cheeks from the excitement of the game. From the liquor swimming in our spiked eggnog.

A half an hour later, he's on his third cup. I'm on my forth. 

I should stop drinking. I know that. I'm a terrible drunk. I know that too. But I need it to calm myself, calm my body, because all I want to do at this moment is reach across the distance, grab him by the arm, and pull him to the couch. I want to curl up against him. I want to smell him, breathe in deep the scent of liquor, the outdoors, the fight, the vague traces of blood, and, underneath all of that, the scent of my brother.

God, I want to, so badly. My body leans forward, having a mind of its own, a desire to fulfill desires I don't want, even before I realize what I'm doing. But when he looks at me, when a slight frown lines his face, I slump back into the couch with an audible thud and close my eyes.

"Sammy? You okay?"

My head drops back, hitting the short edge of the couch just when my neck protests from the harsh angle. The huff that leaves me is more like a sigh. "Yeah. Too much eggnog."

There's a moment of quiet before I hear through the static-laced sounds of the game, "Just sleep it off."

When I crack my eyes open to look at him, he's already watching the game again. A good minute passes before I take his advice, slump over, landing on my side with another audible thud, and let my eyes close again. 

His breaths lull me along with the steady hum of electricity and the game's crowd. Too soon, I find myself drifting. Not even his occasional bursts can stave off sleep.

A while later-who knows how long-the couch jars along with a shout that jerks me awake. My head spasms upwards, trying to find the sudden danger. In front of me, his back near my chest as he sits on the floor, my brother's sitting there, so close. Unconsciously drawn to my promise heat, maybe? Or is he being over-protective again, trying to be the father we barely had? Does it really matter why?

No, not really.

I lay my head back down as he continues to watch the game. I don't think he realizes he woke me up. Grogginess, from the overall stillness of the moment, reclaiming me, I let my gaze drift over his scarred neck. Then I feel my fingertips grazing over one jagged line before I really register that I'm doing it. Dean becomes stone, not even breathing. I'm not fairing much better as I swallow down my quickening breaths.

I'm crossing that line again. I know I am. Truly I do. But tell that to my fingers and the electric feel of my brother's skin. Tell that to my trembling breaths. 

God, why do I want this so badly? Why? Please tell me why I want him so badly. Why I'd give anything to have more than a year with him, my very life, if that's what it took, if I thought even for just for a moment that it'd make a difference.

...You fucking bastard, Dean. Why are you so ready to leave me like this? 

Yeah, fuck you and your egotistical, selfish, gloating, smartassed smiles.

But... he's not smiling right now. He still doesn't breathe as I let my hand cup the back of his neck so I can give it a slight, barely-restrained squeeze when I want to do so much more.

I want to get my hands on him, my arms around him, my claws into him. I don't want to let him go.

If that stupid bitch of a demon could see my soul at this moment, she would have understood the absurdity of her temptation on that crossroads. She would have understood that, underneath the animosity, push for power, and regret, I fucking love my brother far more than I should. And I will never let him go, even if that means going to hell with him.

And Dean surely knows that fact somewhere inside of himself and that's why he keeps this invisible, impenetrable wall between us. To keep me safe. And to keep his ego and ideals safe.

Then again...

His breaths are picking up, I notice now.

"Dean," I hear myself saying in a whisper, "Do you have any idea..."

I can't finish the words, but when he doesn't say a word back, no smartassed remark, I know he knows.

Can we blame the alcohol for what comes next as my hand brushes down over his broad shoulder, gliding over the twitch of his pec and the hard pebble of a nipple I find there? My fingers latch onto the small nub, pinching as my head comes forward to bite at his neck. Dean gasps at the sudden, double-edged aggression, his hand jumping up to grip my hand, which does nothing more than help me pinch him harder.

"Sam, stop it!" my brother hisses as he pulls away from me with all his strength, standing up on slightly wobbly legs. 

So, I follow him with my own trembling body. There isn't much place to go in that room, if he's really trying to avoid me. That point is proven when he walks towards the bed. I follow him there too.

When he seems to realize where he's headed, he turns around and I collide drunkenly into him. The force sends us both tumbling onto the bed, which thankfully was close enough to catch us. It cradles Dean's body just past his firm, tense ass that I immediately grab a hold of as I grind our hips together and claim his mouth again like I haven't done in so many painful weeks.

Dean moans at my hunger but nonetheless tries to push me away. After a bit of fight, he manages to twist his mouth away, still shoving at my chest. "Sam, don't make me fucking punch you! Get the hell off me! You're drunk!"

Yeah, that's true. And somewhere in my brain I know I should stop, but our groins grinding together... Do I really have to explain how good that feels? But it's not enough.

I stand back up. The look of relief on Dean's face is wiped right off when I grab at his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping with admirable speed and ease, considering. When he apparently realizes my intent, his hands jump to mine, griping them with cringe-worthy aggression, but it's too late. 

I yank my hands away, unzip my own jeans, releasing my rock-hard erection, its tip already wet with precum. And when my brother sees it, his whole demeanor changes as his gaze comes to focus on it alone.

A moment later, in my impatience, when I move forward again, he's scooting up on the bed a bit, jerking his pants down, and spreading his legs as much as he can with his pants still at his upper thighs as I come back down on him while resting on my knees. The soles of his shoes scrape at my shoulders as I hoist his legs over them. Then I lean forward, pressing at him, bending him nearly in half, although not completely as his back curves, his ass coming up into the air.

I squeeze my own cock in a vain effort to try to contain myself as I press blindly at him nonetheless. I shift my fingers to feel him and the puckered entrance I want to thrust into. I circle it and Dean's eyes close with a breathy moan, his mouth slack and looking so hungry.

Unfortunately, he's pretty much dry, outside of sweat. The precum of my cock helps a bit at getting a finger inside of him, but it's not enough as my brother hisses.

Contradicting himself though, when I stop, Dean blurts out, "Don't stop!"

I truly wish was in my capability to describe how unbelievably beautiful my brother is right now, wanting me. You have no idea...

I pull my hand away with urgency, spit into it, and again get to work on him, thrusting one and then two fingers into him. I spit again and then work three into him with what nearly amounts to jabs. His hips undulate, trying to drive my fingers deeper. His breath sucks in with a curl my fingers and a stroke on that spot that can give a man so much pleasure. His breaths become open pants. His hand quickly works his own cock in rhythm to my fingers, then faster as he apparently tires of my semi-slow pace. 

His eyes half-open to glare at me. "God, what are you waiting for? Just fuck me already!"

I don't have to be asked twice. Grabbing my own cock, sliding my hand up and down it, squeezing more precum out as I go, a moment later, I'm pressing against his entrance. The glorious warmth inside of him... It's like heaven. And I want more of it. I want every part of him.

I press deeper and deeper with each thrust. Dean's panting moans only drive me on until I'm buried deeply inside of him, my balls nesting against his firm ass. When I stop to catch my breath, trying to ward off my orgasm, looking down at him, I finally come to truly realize what I've just done to my older brother.

But then his hips begin to move, Dean fucking himself, obviously impatient with my need for restraint and reflection. He's so hungry. If he truly wants me, like he appears to... Why... Why does he force this distance between us?

As his hips take on a rhythm though, I find it difficult to care much about any possible reasons. My own hips take on an urgency which quickly registers in my brain as a good thing.

And I fuck him. I fuck him so hard that the bed moans and rocks with us. The pain spiking through my bandaged finger is all too easy to ignore. The air swells with our combined scent. The room becomes hot. Or maybe we're just overworking our drunken bodies that slap together with satisfying smacks that surely our motel neighbors can hear.

Drunk as I am, it takes a while for my orgasm to build up, but, soon, all too quickly it does. When I realize my impending release, I stiffen and try to pull away, so not ready for this to end, knowing what's probably going to come after, or, rather, what's not going to come after. But Dean grabs my shirt, continuing to drive himself onto my cock until, moments later, Dean's own cock audibly slapping against his stomach, comes with a cry somewhere between shriek and a moan. The sound and the smaller ones that follow after drive my hips again until I'm slamming into his quivering, tight hole. 

My own cries seem overly loud, but that could have just been because it resonated in my head. I call out his name repeatedly, loving the sound of it as much as I love the feel of his body against me and around me.

Drained, feeling close to death, still drunk, I collapse on him in a very unromantic manner. He grunts at my weight. But I'm more concerned with the sudden twitching of his ass around my cock, as if it doesn't want to let me go and is figuring out the best grip to succeed in that effort. The idea makes me smile.

And, with my brother finally completely doubled over, I kiss his cheek until he shoves at me with a, "Get off me, bitch. You're fucking heavy."

That makes me grin stupidly as I push off him, my cock unfortunately slipping out of his heat. After his legs straighten, I collapse face first next to him, grunting when my still-hard erection feels like it scrapes the bed. 

My lack of breath becomes painful before I turn my head to the side to look at Dean. He's looking at the ceiling again, like he did weeks before. Immediately, my heart quickens, but for a completely different reason.

"Dean, don't you dare..." The words trail off as I realize, if Dean truly decides to put the wall back up between us, there's not much I can do about it, well, outside of us restoring to yelling and punching each other. But I don't want to fight him. I don't. I just want...

I just want him.

Dean blows out a harsh stream of air, then turns his head and returns my stare as he studies my face. Then, making my heart thud, he smirks, looks back to the ceiling, and sighs out, "I think this might just be the best Christmas yet."

With a smile, I have to agree. A trace of that smile stays until I find myself deep in drunken sleep a minute later.


End file.
